


You Taught Me the Courage of Stars Before You Left

by blatheringbluejay



Category: The Aeronauts (2019), The Aeronauts - Fandom
Genre: Balloon Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22486930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blatheringbluejay/pseuds/blatheringbluejay
Summary: On their second journey into the air together, things change.
Relationships: Amelia Wren/James Glaisher, James Glaisher/Amelia Wren
Comments: 21
Kudos: 42





	You Taught Me the Courage of Stars Before You Left

On their second journey into the air together, things change.

She looks at him, so intent on checking his instruments and recording his measurements, and smiles. She’d been wrong about him at first, she now knows. Underneath the hard, cold, scientific exterior there beat the heart of a man inspired by the beauty of the natural world and respectful of its dangers. The desire to unlock the secrets of the weather comes from a noble desire to save lives, and she admires it. He’s a caring soul, deep down.

Feeling her eyes on him, he looks up and meets her gaze, his own wide smile breaking out across his face. He sits back, ignoring his instruments in favor of taking her in, and she has to admit she feels honored to be worthy of capturing his attention.

She turns back to check the ropes, and is surprised to feel him come up beside her, abandoning his science for a moment to join her in taking in the view.

“It doesn’t matter how many times I venture into the air, I never stop feeling the amazement of looking down and seeing everything so small below. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she hears him respond, much closer than she realized, “it is.” His hand settles on top of hers where it rests on the edge of the basket, and she turns to find him looking at her with an intensity in his eyes she’d only before seen when he was shouting passionately about scientific discovery.

His other hand tentatively lifts to touch the side of her cheek, and before she can fully process what is happening his lips are on hers, and oh! She’s startled, but it feels _divine_.

She leans into him for a moment, eyes fluttering closed as she embraces the feeling of a soft, warm mouth against hers, gentle lips inexpertly but enthusiastically pressing in an unhurried, non-pressuring way...remembering how good it could feel to _feel_ this way, remembering how long it had been since she and Pierre…

 _Pierre_.

With a gasp, she pushes him away, eyes wide in panic as she sees _James_ in front of her and not her husband. She takes a step back, schooling her features into something stern even as confusion bubbles within her chest.

“You forget yourself, Mr. Glaisher,” she scolds him, unable to quite meet his eyes. “We are colleagues. Nothing more.”

When she does manage to lift her eyes to his, she finds him staring at her with confusion and _hurt_ plain on his face. The formality shocks him, she knows. While on the ground they are Mr. Glaisher and Ms. Wren, in the air and when they are alone they are James and Amelia.

He frowns, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to work out how to respond. “I’m sorry,” he settles on. “I thought…”

“Well you thought wrong,” she snaps, and spins on her heel, intent for the moment to end.

He doesn’t let it.

“Amelia,” he says softly, prodding her to face him with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Please look at me.”

“Go back to your instruments, James,” she pleads with him, fighting back tears and refusing to turn around.

“I won’t,” he insists, voice husky with emotion.

_“Please.”_

She can practically feel the hesitancy radiating off of him, but his hand drops from her shoulder and he turns around. It’s something else she admires about him; that he doesn’t push her further than she is willing to go. He waits for her.

She hopes he’ll continue to wait.

* * *

It’s a week later—a week after he’d kissed her and a week after their very awkward and mostly silent descent—that he visits her at the factory where she spends her time consulting on fabrics and basket weaves and gas mixtures. She has little else to do these days, and she knows she’s considered an expert in the field. Serves the stodgy old men right, she thinks with pride, that a woman should hold not only the altitude record but the title of expert.

“Ms. Wren,” he greets her, hat in his hands, and with that damn endearingly sheepish smile of his where he appears as though he’s embarrassed by his own existence.

“Mr. Glaisher,” she returns as she tugs on a piece of rope, testing the knot.

“Might I have a word?” He fidgets with his hat, hands gently turning the brim. He is nervous, and she finds herself feeling strangely appreciative of the fact.

“Certainly,” she replies as she begins leading them to a less busy corner of the floor, “you may have more than one, if you’d like.”

He glances around when they come to a stop, making sure there’s no one within earshot. “Amelia,” he begins, the lack of formality conflicting with the air of seriousness he’s projecting, “I’d like to apologize for my actions last week, in the balloon.” He’s wringing the brim of his hat in his hands now, and she wonders if the poor thing will survive this conversation. “I was out of line, and I hope you can forgive me. I also hope it won’t affect our scientific collaborations, or…” he lifts his eyes to look at her in earnest, “or our friendship.”

“Well,” she says with a confidence she doesn’t feel, “I don’t see why it should.”

“You don’t?” he asks, hope lighting up his eyes.

“I don’t,” she reaffirms. There’s a plummeting feeling in her chest that he might give up so easily, but she also feels relieved that she no longer has to play the moment over in her mind again and again and wonder what might’ve happened if she hadn’t pushed him away. That’s over and done with, then.

“In that case,” he continues, “I’d like to discuss another expedition, if the balloon is ready to go again soon. More readings taken in close proximity will help establish seasonal baselines, and—”

“Yes,” she smiles, cutting him off, as she knows how he can go on about his work. “The balloon will be ready to go whenever you are, James.”

“Good,” he beams, eyes alight. “That’s...good.”

“Shall we say, a week from today?”

“Yes,” he agrees, “excellent.” His smile softens as he looks at her with what she thinks is gratitude, but with a heavy dose of what she’s certain is affection. “I look forward to it, Ms. Wren.”

“As do I, Mr. Glaisher.”

As he bids her good day and walks away, she thinks of the affection in his gaze and wonders if perhaps she’s the biggest fool of all time.

* * *

On their third adventure into the skies they fly into a migratory swarm of ladybirds, which is no less beautiful than the butterflies they encountered on their first expedition, but somewhat more bothersome. The tiny insects get absolutely everywhere, and the two find themselves giggling in near hysterics as they pluck the little red beetles off of each others’ clothing and hair like monkeys grooming one another. She’s leaning over him, attempting to extract a particularly evasive beetle from deep in his hair, when her gaze shifts to his face and she finds him staring at her in breathless wonder. Still feeling a bit euphoric from the laughter, it’s the easiest and most natural thing in the world to lower her face a few inches more and press her lips to his. He is startled, she can tell, but he easily relaxes into the kiss with a contented sigh. She is relentless in her attack on his lips, none of the gentle hesitancy of the kiss he’d bestowed upon her to be found. Something in her chest breaks, expands, _inflames_ , and soon her hands are buried deep in his hair with all thought of the ladybird gone, and her tongue is insistently demanding entrance between his lips.

It’s the moan of her name from the parted lips beneath hers—the moan that sounds _wrong_ —that sends her reeling backward onto her arse, terrified and panting and ashamed and _wanting_ , but confused. Confused and conflicted and mixed up and feeling haunted by the ghost of her dead husband, who she could never seem to stop seeing when it was _James_ right in front of her. He deserved better than a broken widow. This couldn’t keep happening.

His eyes were wide and dark with longing when he stared at her from where he was seated, gasping for breath. His expression rapidly fell to that same confused pain she’d seen on his face the first time she’d rejected him. But this time, she knew, there’d be no explaining it away as his mistake.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, tears welling up in her eyes, “James, I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” he asks her, a bitter tone seeping into the words. “I thought…”

“You weren’t wrong,” she rips her gaze away from his, unable to bear the hurt in his eyes. “I’m sorry. You weren’t wrong. But I...can’t.”

“Why not?”

It’s a reasonable question, she knows, and for a moment her thoughts take on a voice that sounds annoyingly like her sister. _Why not, indeed? Pierre is dead. It’s been two years. He wouldn’t want you to ignore something like this. He wouldn’t want you to never continue living._

“Please just leave it,” she pleads, defeated, as she shakily gets to her feet and scans the skies for anything that could possibly be interesting enough to change the topic of conversation. A flock of flying sheep, perhaps.

“No.” His voice is steely. Stubborn determination. Well, she could be stubborn too.

She refuses to respond.

It doesn’t matter, because he apparently won’t be ignored this time. She hears him get up and approach her, knows a confrontation is imminent. Damn the confines of this tiny basket. There’s nowhere for her to run away to.

The hand on her arm isn’t forceful, but it’s not entirely gentle either. It reminds her of how he’d stopped her when she was trying to make a hasty exit from the Royal Society, on that day she’d announced their flight was off. When he spins her around, the same look from the memory is on his face. Desperate. Betrayed. Upset. His teeth are clenched, and she can see a muscle in his jaw twitching as he forces her to meet his eyes.

“I won’t back away this time, Amelia,” he says with determined forcefulness. “I won’t.” As he sees the tears on her face, his expression softens. His posture deflates with a sigh, and he releases his grip on her arm. “You know I will never push you. I’ll wait until you’re ready to talk. But we need to talk about this. You know we do.”

He’s right, she knows. With one last pleading look at her, he turns back to his equipment and takes down the recordings he’s been neglecting. That is the reason for these trips, after all.

“I see him,” she eventually confesses, breaking the unbearably loud silence. “Pierre. I see him...everywhere. On the street, in the balloon with me, in my mind whenever I close my eyes…” she meets James’ eyes, when he turns at the sound of her voice. “And when I should be seeing _you._ ” She hopes he grasps her meaning. When he looks away, crestfallen and pained, she knows he does.

“But you’re not imagining things,” she continues. “I do...I do feel something for you, James. An affection beyond friendship. But I’m broken, I’m stuck in the past, stuck in grief and guilt, and it’s not fair to you. I won’t force you to fear you’re forever in another man’s shadow—competing with a ghost.”

“I understand,” he begins, but she cuts him off with a bitter laugh.

“No you don’t. You can’t possibly understand.”

He frowns, but his eyes catch hers and hold them. “You’re right. I can’t. Not really. But I sympathize. I respect your loss. I respect how difficult it must be for you. But I fear I’ve come to feel a great deal for you, Amelia, and I need to know if there’s a chance you might eventually want the same thing.”

“And what is it that you want, James?” she asks, voice wavering with emotion.

“You,” he replies honestly. “You make me want all the things I never thought I wanted or needed.”

“No pretty young woman ever managed to turn your eye away from your scientific pursuits before?” she asks, somewhat facetiously, aiming for levity in spite of the seriousness of the conversation.

“No,” he answers immediately, and it gives her pause. _Oh_. “No,” he continues, “it seems I’ve found that I’d much prefer brave, stubborn, fiercely intelligent women who will join me in my scientific pursuits rather than turn me away from them.” That awkward, embarrassed smile that she’s grown incredibly fond of pulls at his lips. “No one else has ever come _close_ to capturing my attention the way you have.” His smile falters as he gazes at her in earnest. “I’ve never been interested in women or marriage in the traditional sense. I find the whole institution insulting, really. I want...I want a _partner_ , not a glorified housekeeper who will drag me to insufferable dinner parties and fuss over me and treat me like a child, and I have no interest in being some sort of...controlling head of household.” He frowns, as though the very words left a bad taste in his mouth. “When I’ve entertained the idea at all, I’ve always imagined a partnership of equals, which isn’t likely to be a reality in a field where women are discouraged or outright banned from entering.” He frowns again, and she’s reminded of how, when she’d shown up at the Royal Society in search of him, every other man seemed scandalized by her very presence, offering to escort her off the grounds immediately. But he’d taken one look at her, declared her unexpected visit an honor, and offered to give her a tour. “Then I met you,” he says with a somewhat sheepish shrug.

“And you found me insufferable,” she reminds him.

“At first,” he admits with a smile, “and you felt the same about me. I believe we were both wrong about each other.”

“Perhaps. But what makes you think I’m that different from other women? Perhaps you’ve never actually gotten to know any other woman in your entire life.”

“That’s not an entirely inaccurate assessment,” he admits, looking away and frowning in self-deprecation. “I admit I only know what I see from other couples. But no other woman has ever inspired a desire to know her like you’ve inspired in me. We work well together, we push each other, and I believe a partnership with you in every sense of the word would be an incredible adventure. I believe...” He looks at her warily, seemingly unsure if he should speak his thoughts out loud. “I believe that’s what you had with Pierre.”

A pang of sorrow stabs her in the chest at the accuracy of his statement. “It was,” she confirms. “He was my greatest adventure. My greatest love.” She thinks of Pierre, and she thinks of James. The sort of relationship he spoke of was rare enough to find once. The possibility of finding it twice in one lifetime was beyond all likelihood. And yet...

“I wouldn’t mind being second-greatest.” James’ voice is hesitant, unsure, and she finds she’s not so certain she believes him.

“It takes more than a good working partnership to make a relationship, you know,” she reminds him.

Eyebrows raised, his eyes wander to the corner of the basket where minutes before they’d been locked in a heated kiss, before wandering back to meet hers. “I think we just proved that’s not an issue.”

She feels her face redden as heat floods her chest. “Desire doesn’t equal love,” she says quietly. “Desire fades.”

“You’re right, I’m sure,” he says, “and I fully realize this is very new and it’s much too soon to talk of courtship. I merely want you to know how I feel. To know that I believe this is worth pursuing, if you feel the same. I don’t want to ignore it or pretend it didn’t happen, and I don’t want either of us to apologize anymore.”

“I do feel something,” she confesses. “But I need time to work out exactly what.”

“That’s all right,” he assures her, smiling. “I’ll wait.”

“Don’t,” she pleads. “Try talking to other women. Women like me...we’re not as rare as you think. You can find someone whole—someone who will give you everything she has instead of leftover scraps.”

“I’ll wait,” he says again, stronger this time. “As long as it takes.”

* * *

It takes three months.

She mourns Pierre still, but more and more she stops seeing his ghost. Her dreams stop being of his final living moments and start being replaced with happier memories. Dreams of Pierre become mingled with dreams of James. James’ wide smile as he shouts into the silence on their first perilous trip into the sky. James cradling her frostbitten hands so gently as he cares for them. James as he grins and clings to her in relief that they’d survived. James’ endearing smile and blushing cheeks when she teases him. James’ freckles becoming more prominent as sunlight dances across his beaming face. James’ lips against hers. In dreams her mind unwillingly combines memories of his kiss with memories of wrestling him for control of the balloon on that first trip when he’d been less than willing to listen to her greater experience. Though the circumstances were far from romantic at the time, she recalls how his body felt on top of her, overpowering her. She also recalls how it felt to overpower him. How he felt beneath her when he submitted to her more logical reasoning. It felt...empowering, in dreams. Her brain helpfully merges the memories until she begins to dream of him above her and below her, kissing each other senseless and inevitably moving on to other acts.

Those dreams cause her to wake up breathless and aching, fighting the urge to relieve the ache with her own hands, and sometimes failing to win that fight.

But she is healing, she knows, as her sister said she would, in time. A year ago it seemed impossible. Months ago, when she got into a balloon again, she began to hope. She never thought she’d be able to give her heart to another, but, much to her annoyance, Antonia had been right. She still loves Pierre. She’ll always love Pierre. But she was sure now that she could also love James as well.

And so, three months after she kisses him in the balloon on their third journey, three months after he agreed to wait for her to be ready, she practically attacks him as he leaves the Society. She walks along beside him as he bids farewell to his colleagues with the pretense of discussing their next flight, but as soon as they are out of sight she shoves him into a narrow alley, pushes him up against the bricks, and snogs him so hard his hat falls right off. She really should offer to buy him a new one, what with the distress she’s both directly and inadvertently caused to befall it.

“So,” he pants out between kisses, moaning as she runs her tongue along the inside of his beautifully plump lower lip, “did you work out what you feel, then?”

She finds his teasing and somewhat snarky tone entirely unacceptable, so instead of answering she bites his lip and presses him harder into the bricks, grinding her front against his in a way that lets him know that, oh yes, she knows exactly what it is she’s feeling at the moment.

His only reply is a mixture of a laugh and a strangled gasp.

* * *

They keep their budding relationship a secret.

Proper society has ways of doing things, and neither of them particularly want to follow those stuffy rules. Despite multiple trips to the skies together already, if a relationship was to be disclosed they would of course never be allowed to venture into a balloon alone together again without it being a scandal worthy of all the local gossip.

So they try to content themselves with stolen kisses whenever possible while maintaining a proper professional distance when seen together in public.

In the air though, it’s another story altogether. With any possible prying human eyes thousands of feet below them, they are free from the constraints of propriety.

It’s now their eighth trip in a balloon together, and he is on her mere moments after they begin their ascent.

“You know, Mr. Glaisher,” she admonishes as he trails a line of kisses down her neck, “you are supposed to be recording important scientific data.”

“I am recording important scientific data,” he insists, mumbling against her throat, “I’m trying to determine how far down your skin flushes when you blush like that.” He tugs at the lapels of her overcoat as she half-heartedly swats his hands away.

“Measurements first,” she laughs, and he sighs and moves away.

“If I must.”

She smiles at him fondly. “Who could have imagined, back on our first trip together, that someday there’d be something that could pull you away from your instruments? Even more unimaginable that it should be me.”

“Believe me, I’m as astonished as you are,” he smiles at her as he checks and records the altitude and temperature. “This should be a fairly uneventful ascent and descent,” he remarks as he looks over his readings and checks the rather clear skies around them.

“We’ll see about that,” she winks at him as she pours a sandbag over the side of the basket. His smile falters and he blushes, and she laughs.

“How far down does _your_ blush go, James?”

He suddenly seems much more nervous than he did a few moments ago. “Are you...are you asking to find out?” he inquires, his serious tone a contrast to their earlier playfulness.

She tilts her head at him, bemused by his sudden hesitancy. “Do you not want me to?”

“It’s not that I don’t,” he hastily assures her, “it’s just that I’ve, um...never done any of this before.”

“Never?” she asks, somewhat surprised, and he looks away in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she says, mentally cursing her insensitivity, “I didn’t mean...I’m just surprised, is all. You’re not terribly young, and you’re rather good-looking, you know.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t that handsome,” he mumbles, a slight smile fighting to break out. “When we danced.”

“No,” she clarifies, grinning, “I said you weren’t _that_ handsome.”

“And the word emphasis matters, how…?”

“The emphasis matters completely. It implies that you are unquestionably handsome, but not devastatingly so. Not enough to make another jealous, as I believe I thought you were accusing me of doing.”

He was looking at her now, eyes narrowed in mock offense but the smile on his lips giving him away. “Well, you’re beautiful,” he states simply, then continues before she can even process the easy compliment, “But to answer your question...I believe I already told you that no other woman has ever caught my interest.”

“But,” she says, still reeling a bit from being so casually declared beautiful, “that doesn’t necessarily mean nobody’s ever caught your eye in a much more basic way.”

“True,” he admits, “and I won’t deny...I have baser instincts, much as most people do, but I’ve never felt particularly inspired to act on them. Or, if I’m honest, I’ve never had the opportunity. I’ve always been a pursuer of science, first and foremost.”

“What could be more scientific than the mating drives of mammalian creatures?” she asks, teasing, and he gives her an amused glare.

“Women are, tragically, not permitted to pursue the sciences. My social circles have always been male-dominated, from my education into my career. I’ve never had an interest in other aspects of society, as you so eloquently pointed out when you noted my lack of up-to-date fashion and shoddy skills on the dance floor. It’s been a fine life thus far, but one without much opportunity for feminine companionship.”

“I’m sure other scientists have managed it,” she grins.

“Possibly,” he laughs, then sighs. “Probably. But it’s not been something I’ve ever felt the need to attempt. Until now.” He looks at her, eyes wide and vulnerable, and she sees the moment his mind comes to a decision. “I love you,” he tells her simply, as if it’s common knowledge. He swallows down his nerves as he forces his eyes to hold hers. “Would you...show me how to show you?”

It’s the sweetest proposition she’s ever received (not that there have been many), and so she takes his hand and guides him to the floor of the basket to show him new discoveries—ones which he most definitely will not be recording in his book.

After, he is watching her with wonder and admiration (and love, she sees, as clear as daylight) as she rises to release the gas and start their descent, completely unembarrassed by the state of her undress. The contented smile on his face as he looks at her makes her chest fill with so much joy it threatens to spill out and weigh down the balloon.

“I love you too,” she tells him, before she loses her nerve.

It hardly seems possible, but his smile widens even more.

* * *

Their ninth trip up, after their second time making love, they discuss a formal courtship.

“If you want to, that is,” he adds, still allowing her to set their pace, still maybe a little unsure of the extent she wants to take this thing between them.

She doesn’t have the words to reassure him, but there are other things lips can do that are just as effective, she thinks.

“You realize,” she says later, gripping his hand tightly as the ground comes up to meet them on their descent, “that once we announce this, it’ll be considered unacceptable to be alone together in a balloon, no matter how much we’ve already defiled said balloon.”

He laughs. “I know. I believe for now I have quite enough readings. I might use some time to turn my findings into a paper. And,” he adds, nervously grinning at her, “perhaps...we could aim for a rather short engagement, eventually?”

“You haven’t even proposed,” she points out.

“Would you want that?” he asks her, sincerely. “So soon? We’ve only just discussed courtship. It’s generally assumed that’ll lead to marriage, but I wouldn’t want to presume...I thought perhaps a courtship would give you more time…?”

“A year ago I never thought I’d love again,” she tells him. “And I find myself loving you more each day. I spent enough time doubting it, in the beginning. I’m quite sure of my feelings now, and if marriage is the expected outcome I’d rather not waste time putting it off.”

He grins, raising her hand to his lips to kiss the back of it sweetly just before the basket makes contact with the ground and they collapse against each other from the impact. They spill out onto the ground with hands still tightly clasped.

She rolls onto him, knowing there’s nobody likely to find them in the field they’ve landed in for a little while yet. She kisses him again and again, still reveling in the feel of him beneath her.

“I’ll get a ring,” he tells her between kisses. “What if we skip the courtship altogether and just get engaged?”

“How very unconventional” she smiles, teasing. “I love it.”

“I love _you_ ,” he says, yet again, as he reaches up to straighten her cap and sits up, gently rolling her off of him. “And I’ve never been much for convention.”

They help each other to their feet, still grinning. In the distance, she sees the wagon approaching, on its way to help them gather up the balloon and the basket. Rather than releasing his hand as they’ve grown accustomed to doing in public, she grips it tighter and takes a deep breath, ready to face inquiries from family and friends. Ready to be the subject of gossip and speculation. Ready to plan for a life with the man beside her. She can almost imagine she sees Pierre standing there by the treeline, smiling at her with approval, encouragement, and love. Always love.

“Prepare yourself, Mr. Glaisher,” she says, squeezing his hand and feeling him return the gesture. “We’re about to embark on an entirely different sort of adventure.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a perfectly good Fantastic Beasts WIP that needs working on.
> 
> But I watched The Aeronauts again today, felt INSPIRED by that final scene and the way they were gazing at each other, and spent the rest of the day writing this. It's quick, unbetad, and barely edited, but I felt like the stream of consciousness word vomit style seemed to fit, somehow, so...here it is.
> 
> This appears to be the first work for this movie. I'm not sorry. I ship it so hard. I also feel, for the purposes of this fic and of the movie itself, that James Glaisher is an entirely fictional character who happens to share a name with a notable meteorologist. In my opinion the movie should've changed his name anyway, as the character and the events of the real balloon trip are so far removed from the actual historically accurate reality. Was the real James Glaisher already married with children when he went up in the balloon? Yes. Who cares. This one isn't.
> 
> Title from Saturn by Sleeping at Last.


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